Most of the time I make Big Sexy deal with her royal dumbness, but in the mornings, when he is still at work, I am forced to care for her. We are not a good combination in the morning. I am really not a morning person to begin with, and seeing her dumb little face is just not what makes my life worth living. My kids, they make me smile in the morning. So does my morning log-in to scrapbook.com and my morning cappucino.
Every morning, I get myself presentable and go upstairs to get Faildog from her crate. She sleeps in her crate every night because she is at least as in love with Big Sexy as I am, and I refuse to share the bed with her. Honestly, I think she thinks that I am a cruel interloper, come to tear her one true love away from her doting puppy kisses. I think that she smells bad and for a little dog she takes up an absurd amount of space on our queen-sized bed. If we didn’t lock her up in her crate she would spend the whole night scratching at our bedroom door, or at least long enough for me to go completely mad and dispatch her with little ceremony to whatever afterlife Faildogs have to look forward to.
So she sleeps in her crate, upstairs where we can’t hear her whining and barking and attempts to leave it. And when I get her up in the morning, often I am greeted by the smelly results of her pre-sleep crisis: either she has peed in her crate or puked in it. Sometimes both. The grossest mornings are the ones where she gets out of her crate, shakes herself, and gets me wet. Ew. Ew. Ew.
Anyway, after I rescue her from the Evil Crate of Doom and Despair (which we have cruelly fitted up only with a cozy quilt and not with the heating blanket from our bed or space for my husband to sleep in), we patter downstairs and to the back door so she can go out. In the winter this often involved me standing shivering on the stoop, yelling at Miss Fail to hurry up and go pee before my eyebrows freeze. If it’s raining, Faildog considers it far beneath her to go in the grass and will stand shivering in front of me until I toss her off the stoop to do her business.
But on a warmish spring day we do Faildog’s favorite thing EVER. I coax her out to her happy red chain, tie her up, and leave her there.
When we first got Rosie, if we put her outside alone she would start barking and whining before we even made it back to the house. However, gradually last summer and last fall we worked her up to it, and after a whole winter of being locked up in the house with my hooligans, she is actually pretty happy to stay outside for awhile when we put her out. Which is possibly the one thing Faildog doesn’t actually fail at.
Generally she does not start barking and whining until her efforts to catch the squirrels have fully entangled her around every possible snare in our yard and she has only one inch of leash line left. Faildog strikes again, forcing me out of the house again in my slippers to disengage her. Once I came outside and discovered her standing on top of the picnic table, so tangled up that she couldn’t get down or really even breathe. Sigh. At that point my five-year-old son looked at her and said, “Rosie, you fail.” It was the proudest moment of my life.
After spending the early part of her morning chasing squirrels and birds and desperately trying to escape the bondage into which I so cruelly place her, Rosie is always excited to come back inside and commence her final Daily Morning Fail. Strangling yourself with your own leash is very thirsty work, so upon being allowed back inside, Rosie’s very first stop is usually her water dish. Slurp slop slurp lick lick splash . . . and then, once the dish is empty, she trots over to me, makes a horrible wretching sound, and yaks water and Fail Phlegm all over the floor.
This is a daily occurrence.